


with his sweetened breath, and his tongue so mean

by malkaivian



Category: Andromeda Six (Visual Novel)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, i mean theres a little if you squint, no beta we die like seleota royals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malkaivian/pseuds/malkaivian
Summary: “Your hands are fucking cold,” the boy grumbles in protest (Damon sees sharp blades dripping with blood, seeping through the spaces between his fingers and muses,you have no clue), but the bark loses its bite when paired with the way Cassius' eyes flit down and to the side almostshyly. Which is a ridiculous way to act, Damon thinks, when your dick is fully in someone’s hand.Or: Cassius Peg'asi has trouble sleeping—finding out you’re the last line of a recently slaughtered royal family does that—and Damon knows just how to fix it. Set in the interlude between the Traveler’s confession to the crew and arriving at Cursa.
Relationships: Damon Reznor/Original Male Character(s), Damon Reznor/Traveler
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	with his sweetened breath, and his tongue so mean

**Author's Note:**

> title from Hozier's Angel of Small Death & The Codeine Scene. traveler is named Cassius, pronouns he/him, half Kitalphan. i just really needed an outlet for my mlm damon cravings so here ya go

A thing about Damon: Night time is his time.

He’s never been good at sticking to a healthy sleeping pattern, years spent in Cursa fending for himself and Alisa making him the worst type of light sleeper. There’s been one too many incidents involving crew members (Cal and June, mostly) thinking someone’s broken into the ship, only to draw their weapons on their beloved assassin stress-baking cookies at 2 in the morning with dark circles in his eyes. So it’s common knowledge among the team that Damon’s a bit of a night crawler, always getting up at ungodly hours, either ransacking the kitchen or doing god knows what else.

Granted, he’s not the only one in the group plagued by insomnia. June’s even worse, but the resident space cowboy is much too _nice_ to even consider burdening everyone by disrupting their sleep, and so Damon knows that he usually locks himself in his room when he’s going through a rough night. Cal stays up pretty late, but he has strict hours that he vehemently follows (fucking _soldiers_ ), while Bash could—and would—snore through the apocalypse. Only Aya and Ry really have anything resembling normalcy in terms of sleeping habits.

The point is, if anyone’s causing a ruckus in the middle of the night, it’s usually Damon. So when he’s rummaging through the snack cabinet in the dark and he hears the unmistakable scuffling of feet out in the hallway, it gives him reasonable pause.

When he peeks his head out from the kitchen, what he sees is a shock of platinum blonde hair. Cassius paces back and forth across the hall in a way that Damon thinks is downright _ridiculous_ , then sags against the metal wall unceremoniously. There’s a wet sniffle, though ears that aren’t trained like Damon’s wouldn’t have caught it underneath the constant hum of the ship’s engine. Cassius’ face is blocked from view, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. Damon thinks he hears him whisper to himself.

“Get a hold of yourself… shouldn’t have trusted…”

Damon digs his nails into his palm and crosses his arms. Narrows his eyes.

“Cut it out.”

The boy jumps and promptly turns to face him, all dear-in-headlights. In the dimly lit hallway, two bright amber eyes stare at Damon in shock. _Nolaxian Snow Tiger_ , his mind registers blearily. He bites back a snarky remark about the redness of the other’s eyes and the puff of his cheeks; something tells him it wouldn’t be much appreciated. Normally, that doesn’t stop him from talking smack _anyway_ , but he’s all too aware that they’ve been on rockier terms than usual lately. 

That tends to happen when you, y’know, suggest handing someone over to their death.

“Cut what out?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely over Cassius’ general direction. “The pacing. I can almost hear you thinking from all the way in the kitchen.”

Cassius scoffs, pushing off the wall and gathering himself at full height. Already, he’s composed himself past the initial surprise, and Damon earns a perfectly arched brow in response. The gesture is so reminiscent of Calderon’s stuffy mannerisms that Damon wants to berate himself for not figuring out sooner that the kid’s some high-brow royal. _Princely prick_. 

“I’m allowed to pace.”

Damon snorts ungracefully at that, but for the first time, the boy cuts whatever retort was at the tip of his tongue. “No, you know what? I don’t wanna deal with your mind games right now.”

“Mind games? Think you’re being a little dramatic.”

“You tried to sell me off to Zovack.”

“Emphasis on tried,” he stresses, eyes rolling. “I only said what everyone else was thinking. Plus, didn’t work. Was outvoted. So _yay_.” 

“Is this you trying to make me feel better about that whole mess? Cause if so, you’re doing a shit job of it.”

A brilliant thought strikes into his mind. His lips curl into a crooked grin. “No, but I can think of some things that might.”

The look Cassius sends him is one of exasperation, but Damon doesn’t miss the way his gaze falters and his cheeks redden. He doesn’t immediately respond with the usual bluster, instead letting the banter fade into a momentary silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but Damon swears there’s a certain heaviness to the air that wasn’t there before. He realizes the other’s eyes had flitted downwards, just slightly so, to rest at his lips.

His smile only widens at that, the realization seemingly coming to him the same time it comes to Cassius himself, so he hurriedly remarks on it before the other has a chance to make excuses, “You know you could just ask.”

A defeated sigh. “Quit joking around.”

“But you make it so easy!” He whines exaggeratedly, head leaning sideways against the wall as he feigns a pleading look. He sobers up his expression and adds, more seriously this time, “I’m not.”

Cassius casts him a suspicious glance, but Damon thinks he sees a little panic behind it to, so he pushes harder.

“Don’t act coy, Cassius. I know you like this little cat-and-mouse thing we’ve got going,” as if to illustrate his point, he throws the other a Cheshire grin, inching closer. “I’m just waiting to see if you’ll take a bite.”

Finally, the prince’s eyes widen in understanding. Then uncertainty, fingers grasping at the hem of his shirt to avert his attention elsewhere with a newfound fidgetiness. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why won’t you tell me to leave?”

“I—” Cassius stops as abruptly as he starts, finding himself at a loss. He flickers his stare slowly back up to meet Damon’s icy blue ones. 

They’re a hair’s breadth away now.

“Last chance, Cass. Tread lightly.”

There’s a brief flash of annoyance that passes the other’s gaze. Then, defiance. Cassius surges forward, but Damon’s quicker to lean back just enough that the other’s lips misses his by inches, determined to frustrate as much as he could. He huffs out a satisfied, smug laugh; Cassius’ intent was unmistakable, and the failed gesture was all the confirmation he needed.

Damon cups the boy’s neck and presses it back until his head makes a soft _ka-thunk_ noise against the wall. He uses the prince’s surprised gasp to slip his tongue in him, next.

The rest of the prince is pulled taut like the strings of a bow, tense from confronting his past these last few days, but Cassius’ mouth is surprisingly pliant under his kiss. There’s a certain rushed restlessness to it, and the breath that leaves Cassius when they eventually part is shaky as he stares up at Damon with a strange, dazed look. He thinks it’s awe. He doesn’t know what to do with that, so instead he murmurs, “Okay?” betraying his own words.

He sees the boy’s eyes turn soft before he feels fingers fisting at the front of his shirt and pulling him in. Damon meets him halfway greedily, as if to fill some gnawing void within him that yearns for this heat that the other’s close proximity brings him.

When they eventually stumble into the Cassius’ room, his eyes quickly scan over it out of force of habit. He could snark about how drab everything still is, or about the few new trinkets cluttered around— _is that a drawing of him getting bonked on the head by a very angry-looking Pussywrench?_ —but the selfish part of him really doesn’t want to give Cassius the chance for second thoughts, so instead Damon crowds into the prince’s space till his back hits the door and slides it shut, trapping him in between and nipping soft lips until they’re raw.

“Take off your shirt.” He dictates, and the other’s eagerness to obey is almost amusing to watch. He files that in his memory and promises himself to test the limits of that obedience in the future. Damon does the same, reaching back to pull at the scruff of his shirt.

He shouldn’t be doing this. _This won’t end well_ , a microscopic part of his brain tries to rationalize. For a split second, his mind recalls the steady (albeit slow) increase of trust in the prince’s gaze on him these past few weeks. His thoughts wander to that night in Nos Vega, to _**I care, Damon,**_ to stuttering breaths and his thigh under Damon’s palm. Thinks of them in the fields, amidst the fireflies, their fluorescence reflecting dream-like hues on honeyed skin. Warm eyes and a gaze so earnest it almost kills him.

 _You shouldn’t say that unless you really mean it_ , he had said, that night in Nos Vega. _**I mean it.**_

Then again, he screwed the pooch the moment he suggested ratting Cassius out to Zovack. Whatever groundless trust the other had in him, which Damon had pegged down as naïveté and naïveté only, was surely damaged beyond repair at this point. To go through with this, to complicate their relationship further… it’d be salt into the wound. 

_This won’t end well._

But Cursa taught him to take what he can, which is usually more than he deserves; to push his luck beyond what fate had in store. So instead he buries his face in the crook of the prince’s neck, mouths at the protruding set of gills there, and welcomes the shudder that runs through the other as a response.

Instead, he slips his fingers underneath Cassius’ waistband, hastily tugging fabric down till the other’s trousers hung below his hips. He makes a show of licking a wet stripe along his own palm—so much of sex is about the performance when it comes to Damon—and delights in the positively _scandalized_ look on Cassius’ face. When he secures a grip around the boy’s cock, already at half mast, he earns a sharp hiss in return.

“Your hands are fucking cold,” the boy grumbles in protest (Damon sees sharp blades dripping with blood, seeping through the spaces between his fingers and muses, _you have no clue_ ), but the bark loses its bite when paired with the way his eyes flit down and to the side almost _shyly_. Which is a ridiculous way to act, Damon thinks, when your dick is fully in someone’s hand. He can’t help the low chuckle that escapes him, nose nudging against the other’s jawline as he peppers kisses along it.

“So warm me up.”

“ _Damon_.”

“Hmm.” He hums noncommittally, then fixes the other with a stare and a cocked eyebrow. “Don’t tell me this is your first time.”

Cassius doesn’t answer him outright, but the almost offended scoff he makes lets Damon knows that he’s in the negative. “Bit— _ah_ , bit late for that, isn’t it?”

In lieu of a response, Damon twists his wrist just so, and watches the other lose himself just a little more. “Fucking fuck, fuck, _shit_ , that feels good.” 

“You sure you’re royalty? Such a mouth on you.”

“Hey.” Cassius calls out immediately in protest. Damon lets his grin grow, eyes raking along his body, up his chest, and to the mildly annoyed look on the other’s face. Cute.

“Beg for it.”

The smaller boy’s eyes widen briefly before he looks away, the tips of his ears darkening. “You’re an ass.”

Damon chuckles breathily, using the Cassius’ averted gaze to run his tongue along his jawline. The prince shivers as Damon nibbles on his ear. “C’mon, Cass. I wanna hear you say it.”

When he’s met with silence, he growls and tightens the grip he has on the other’s shaft, squeezing the base before making bold strokes along the length in a torturous pace. He listens for a stutter in Cassius’ breath, presses up his knee between the other’s legs and waits for a tremor. When they come, and he’s sure the boy’s nearing his release, he stills entirely.

“No!” Cassius exclaims, but Damon’s quick to pin him by the hip with his free hand, finding entertainment in the way the other writhes helplessly against him. 

He keeps a firm pressure on the other, but never enough to create friction. He leans back to give the prince a hard look. “Do as I say, Cassius.”

A momentary hesitance. Then: “Let me come.” Amber eyes flare. “Please.”

Damon almost purrs at that, continuing his ministrations. “Say it again.”

“ _Please_.” Cassius repeats, then whines when Damon grinds his still-clothed bulge against him, the denim rubbing harshly against his red cock. There’s that telltale sense of urgency in his breath again that Damon now knows means one thing, “I’m—You’re gonna make me—”

“Do it, c’mon,” he rasps. He can feel shaky puffs of breaths against his cheek as he mouths against the shell of the other’s ear, “Cassius.”

“Oh god, _oh god_ —”

He relishes in the sight of ivory skin and platinum curls, now tainted by a reddish hue that blooms prettily across his chest and along his neck. Cassius’ hand flies up to his mouth as he comes, muffling the long keen that escapes him. Unsatisfied by the obtrusion, Damon continues fisting the prince's dick in rough pumps, only relenting once Cassius starts desperately grabbing for his wrist with a strangled sob, hips shying away from overstimulation. Damon is suddenly struck with the brilliant thought of how much more devastating the prince would look if his arms were bound above his head, tight ropes straining smooth, tanned skin till they’re splotched with red.

Next time, then.

“You know the walls are soundproof, right, genius?”

That earns a shove against his shoulder, though he thought the effort meek at best and pathetic at worst. “Fuck off.”

Damon’s grin only grows. “We can arrange that at a later date.”

Under normal circumstances, he would’ve demanded the other party to finish him off; pay their dues, hold up their end of the bargain, so to speak. But he sees Cassius, still covering his slack jaw with a noticeable tremble, and Damon thinks that the prince wouldn’t be very good at such a task, with the sluggish state of mind he’s under. And he needs, _needs_ to chase this high _now_ , so when he finally unzips his pants and pulls down his briefs, he abruptly pushes the other’s hand away that reaches for his already-leaking cock. From the noise that leaves the ever-overthinking prince, he knows the gesture’s been misunderstood. “Let me—”

“‘S fine.” He interjects before taking his own cock in his grip, tugs at it hastily the way he knows will bring him over quickest, his eyes screwing shut. He’s content with bringing himself to completion, images of Cassius' climax still freshly imprinted in his brain, but then he feels soft fingers curling over his palm that’s pressing against the wall beside the prince’s head.

Damon opens his eyes just in time to watch Cassius draw their intertwined hands to his own face, close his lips around Damon’s thumb, and _sucks_.

“Motherf—” He tears his eyes away from the obscene display and leans his forehead against the boy’s shoulder as a guttural _unh, unh_ rips out of him, his torso tensing up while white stripes paint the other’s abdomen in staccato bursts.

Amidst the descent of his sex-drunk high, Damon belatedly realizes Cassius’ other hand had found its way to rest on the dip of his waist. Against his better judgement, he feigns ignorance and does not pull away.

Damon also very pointedly does _not_ acknowledge the way the other’s thumb traces slow, affectionate circles onto the skin there, the gesture starkly out of place in its gentleness.

Eventually, Cassius lets go of his thumb with a faint _pop_ sound. “I’m not counting this as an apology.”

He fights _really_ hard not to crack a smile at that. He busies himself with fixing his pants instead, while Cassius leans down to grab their shirts. He’ll beat himself up about that one later. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Get some sleep, Prince.”

For the shortest millisecond, he feels the boy stiffen against him. It was slight; a small gesture that many would miss, except Damon’s area of expertise very specifically covers reading subtle, physical cues. Cassius seemed to go elsewhere, deep in thought, but the moment passes just as quickly as it arrives. Was it the nickname? Another memory resurfacing, then?

Damon doesn’t probe. It’s a late-night quickie, not a fucking high-school sleepover. He’ll pass on the heart-to-heart, thank you very much.

They end things on a slightly awkward note as Damon slips out of the other’s room, the door sliding shut behind him with a quiet hiss. Doubtless that they’ll pretend this never happened come morning time, at least in front of the others, though he’ll delight on dropping subtle hints just to watch the royal squirm. Nevertheless, he’s never been one to fuss over the details; he wanted a warm body and he got one. 

And if that ends up being the first time in a long while where Damon actually gets a solid few hours of sleep, well. Mind your fucking business.

**Author's Note:**

> i haven’t written a fic in at least 3 yrs (and i’m sure it shows), so do what you will with this abomination. kinda wanna make a genuine, non-pwp series for my traveler but i am the laziest writer on earth so we'll see. thanks for reading!


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